In memory

Today we visited the National Memorial Arboretum, a centre of remembrance for those who died in war.  The air was cold and rimed with fresh frost burnt to the dying autumn leaves that littered the ground.

So many people, so many different thoughts.  The simple wooden poppy-loaded crosses stuck to the ground with a thousand silent, tearful messages. I saw a photograph of a handsome young man on one and had to turn away.

We finished at the memorial to the Royal Engineers. My father served as a Captain and my heart turned with each step as we neared. There were four huge granite stones carved from Falklands soil, each suspended on thin metal tubes and etched with living moss.  I cried.  I wanted to hug each stone for the lost memory of my father, carried away as his heart gave out in some silent lay-by aged just forty eight.

Just for one brief fleeting moment I wanted to die there with him, clutching cold stone and childhood memories. And then I took hold of my dear wife's hand and we walked away ...